


Remember the Heart Over the 'I'

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Love Confessions, M/M, Set on Chorus, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 17:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14938524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: Simmons understands.He does, really. People die here. Chorus is dangerous like that. Young soldiers die from bullet wounds, grenade fragments, untreated sepsis, and today a poor soul even passed away due to a defect missile launcher. There are a lot of ways to die in a civil war.And so it is important to leave a letter behind: the final words and regrets and even love confessions when it is already too late. It makes sense. It is important.Or, well, Grif apparently doesn’t share his opinion as he stuffs his paper in his back pocket, saying, “Meh.”





	1. Love, Simmons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foxtrot77](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot77/gifts).



“We… _recommend_ filling out the papers as quickly as possible. It’s not required but the last few years have proven that it is best not to let anything be unsaid. Our soldiers have appreciated the idea, given the circumstances.”

Simmons understands.

He does, really. People die here. Chorus is dangerous like that. Young soldiers die from bullet wounds, grenade fragments, untreated sepsis, and today a poor soul even passed away due to a defect missile launcher. There are a lot of ways to die in a civil war.

And so it is important to leave a letter behind: the final words and regrets and even love confessions when it is already too late. It makes sense. It is important.

Or, well, Grif apparently doesn’t share his opinion as he stuffs his paper in his back pocket, saying, “Meh.”

“It is your choice,” Kimball tells him. “We also offer to archive them in case- well, some choose to keep it on their person, but it happens that when the bodies are retrieved, the messages have been damaged as well.”

“It makes sense,” Simmons says, because it does. It’s very logical to reflect on the things still left unsaid, all the subjects that can be relevant if a bullet pierces your heart tomorrow. There are a lot of subjects, really. Like, passwords and organ donations and the transcriptions on the tombstone and the choice between burial or cremation and, in a few rare cases, love confessions and oddly sentimental stuff like that.

It’d be a lie to say that Simmons hasn’t thought about it – the passwords, at least. He can’t trust Grif not to hack his Basebook profile after his death, and Sarge is too old to understand technology that doesn’t involve robotic science and missiles.

Lopez would write his eulogy and so it’d be in Spanish and then no one will be able to read all of Simmons’ accomplishments. So that leaves Donut and- And he’d probably make an emotional speech, actually, so if Simmons could just convince him to stop with the emojiis-

“You can return to me with them,” the General says, “when you are ready. Some send the files while other prefer the more personal touch of paper and pen. They won’t be opened by anyone but the person it’s addressed to.”

Caboose nods, eyes very thoughtful. “Like the letters to Santa Clause, yes.”

Simmons can’t tell from Tucker’s expression if he’s planning to follow Kimball’s advice. His usual smirk is still there, a bit fainter than usual, but everyone has a haunted look in their eyes since the tunnel gave in.

Caboose still smiles, even if they don’t understand _why_ , and Grif is still looking fat and bored but the dark circles under his eyes are dark _er_ now, almost blueish, and Simmons hasn’t brought it up because then they’d have to talk about it, and he can’t honestly blame anyone for looking like shit right now.

He’s probably looking like shit himself, probably looking even _worse_ than shit, but he isn’t sure since he’s been avoiding mirrors for weeks.

When they leave Kimball’s office, Simmons has brought a paper with him – and five extra pages, just to be sure, since drafts are always recommended, at least in Simmons’ brain. Your final words can’t be tainted with typos. That’s not how you should be remembered.

Grif obviously doesn’t care about drafts or typos or final words in general because Simmons can see the top of the crumbled paper protrude from his back pocket. He quickly tears his eyes away, however, before Tucker can accuse him of staring of Grif’s ass again.

And Simmons isn’t staring at Grif’s ass. Really, he isn’t. Sometimes he’ll stare at it but only to confirm that he is still a fatass, and right now he isn’t even doing that – he’s just staring at piece of paper, the symbol of Grif’s laziness and indifference.

When Grif places his fat ass on Simmons’ bed, the paper is crushed beneath the weight. Simmons isn’t even sure why Grif is in his room. He doesn’t ask. It’s just common these days, sticking together. The Reds, at least. Well, what remains of the Reds.

Simmons wonders what Grif can write in his letter. He wonders about that before he wonders what he is going to write in his own.

He thinks about his dad, and he decides that he needs some final words to him. Just to let him know that he didn’t die like a coward but that he’s actually turned out to be a soldier, in an _actual civil war_ (which is a lot more frightening than a fake war in a boxed canyon, honestly, but at least this will look better on the resume) and his dad can read the letter and think that Simmons is actually right for once: right and dead but still a real soldier, despite his parents’ doubts.

“I can see your brain overheating,” Grif says. He is sprawled across Simmons’ bed, ruining the neatly made sheet. “How are you overthinking this?”

“I’m not,” Simmons says stiffly and since the bed is already occupied, he finds himself leaning against the wall. “I’m just… thinking. Normally. And average thinking. I’m not overdoing anything.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve been trying to overdo everything your entire life. It’s why you’re called a kissass.”

Grif starts eating a protein bar, and it clearly isn’t his favorite taste since he grimaces while he chews. Simmons isn’t even sure where the bar is from – he has no storage in his room because he is a decent human being who knows that food should be stored in an actual fridge, and Kimball has already warned them about low supplies. But Grif has always had a strangely incredible ability to keep food on him.

Simmons stops watching Grif chew, and instead he tilts his head and stares at his own legs. They’ve been given civies and strict instructions always to wear armor the moment they step outside a base in the case of snipers.

But today he’s wearing a simple maroon t-shirt and shorts that end just below the knee, allowing him to look down at his own metal leg that shines in the fluorescent light. He’s pretty sure that he has caught a lot of the Rebels staring at the cyborg limbs, and he doesn’t really have the right to blame them.

But then again: they are also staring at Grif, Caboose and Tucker, and they are not cyborgs. They are all just strangers showing up on an isolated planet, and now they are apparently heroes without even having done anything, so maybe that’s the reason why the Rebels stare.

But maybe it’s the leg.

Maybe it isn’t his leg.

“You’re really gonna write a letter?” Grif snorts and licks chocolate off his fingers. When he is done, he throws the wrapper on the floor.

Simmons blinks. “Yeah, I suppose so… I mean, it’s basically a tradition here.”

“Some tradition. At least on Hawaii we stick with leis and luaus. Here you have teenagers writing farewell letters to their parents just in case. Goddamn depressing.”

“Actually, I think most of them are orphans,” Simmons can’t help but add because he can’t recall seeing many adults. Just kids – well, teenagers, technically – still too young to be wearing armor and carrying guns.

“Good job, Simmons: you just made a depressing subject even more dark!”

Grif is staring at the ceiling, but Simmons is staring at Grif and he opens his mouth to defend himself and his excellent points: “It makes sense. I mean, it’s logical to think about your death when you are constantly surrounded by all sources of dangers-“

“Cars are a source of danger,” Grif says like an idiot because he _is_ , in fact, an idiot. “All planets have cars. I think. What planet doesn’t have car? Anyway, you don’t see people writer their wills early ‘cause they see a car.”

“They’re fighting a war, Grif. _We_ ’re fighting a war now.” He can’t help but stop then, just a for a second, because the words make it even more real: this is war, and their friends are prisoners, and now they have to fight and they _have to_ win. “And that means dangerous missions and dangerous weapons and dangerous training sessions. War is dangerous.”

Grif sits up and for a moment Simmons thinks he might leave the bed – except Grif never leaves a place of comfort that quickly. So he just puts some weight on his palm and stares at Simmons. “Who the fuck dies during training sessions?”

The unlucky ones – that’s who. “Well, I heard about a guy mistaking practice rounds with real bullets last month-“

“Dude, my guys are just running laps.”

“That’s because you don’t bother to come up with an actual program,” Simmons reminds him because it’s been annoying him for days now. “You just tell them to run around in a circle because that’s the first order that enters your brain.”

“Hey, I’m teaching them a valuable retreating strategy: run for your fucking lives to survive.”

“You can’t just teach them how to flee,” Simmons says and settles his hands on his hips. He won’t argue that retreating is actually an effective strategy, at times, and at the other hand he won’t admit that ever since they joined the Rebels, his body (at least the human parts of it) has been itching to run, despite there being nowhere to run to.

“Why not?” Grif asks him, staring.

“Because you can’t always flee!” Simmons says, because this is the truth. If it isn’t the truth, that means they don’t have to be Rebels, they don’t have to teach teenagers how to shoot, they _don’t have to_ be a part of their war. “I mean, we can’t back out of this.”

“Sure, we can.” Grif steps on his wrapper on his way out of the room, shrugging. “We just choose not to.”

* * *

Unlike Grif, Simmons thinks they can do this. And unlike Grif, Simmons tries to make sure that they can do this.

And while Simmons thinks the can do this, it doesn’t mean that he is a hundred percent sure that they will. He thinks they can do this because there is a possibility that they can – they can make a plan, they have soldiers to command, Kimball supports them, and if things go their way, they _can_ succeed and rescue their friends. They can do this. But things can also go wrong. They can die a gruesome death, their men can fall before them, Jensen can get behind the wheel and get them all killed by accident, a lot of things can go wrong, but Simmons tries not to think about that.

They can do this.

Technically.

The thoughts don’t stop him from writing a letter to Sarge and Donut. He considered one for Lopez but he’s pretty sure that leaving him one in English would be considered rude, so two letters for now. Well, three if he also counts the unfinished letter to his dad but-

Writing the letter to Sarge revives his calligraphy skills, and though his hand shakes too much at the first try, the words eventually turn edible at the third draft. And after the seventh draft the sentences actually make sense and he still have some dignity left.

_Mr. Sir Sarge_

_This would be the point to salute you, but I’m afraid my final way of honoring you will be through written words-_

The one to Donut is shorter but he’s sure he’ll appreciate the gesture.

_Donut_

_I apologize for leaving you behind with Grif. It wasn’t a choice, I promise-_

But then they _actually do it_. They reunite with the others and they’re alive and breathing and not tortured.

And then Felix is evil, and they teleport, and the soldiers fight, and then Tucker is stabbed and the fighting stops and they are all still alive.

Which means that Simmons has rewrite his letters. Just a little bit. The setting technically hasn’t changed – when they open the letters, Simmons will still be dead (he’s hoping for an explosion because he’s decided that explosions, at least, will be a quick way to go). But they are reunited now, and Simmons has had the change to say some things face to face, and now they are fighting together.

_-and while the war is no longer color-coded, I have enjoyed fighting at your side, calling myself a Red-_

* * *

Grif isn’t dead. Yet.

Yesterday he almost died, and that just proves Simmons right. Yesterday Grif could have died, and Kimball would have given him the news, they’d bury the remains of him (if there were any) and then that’d be it.

Nothing more to say because Grif doesn’t care enough to leave any final words.

Simmons isn’t even sure why he expects Grif to make that extra effort. He should know not to expect the impossible.

But at least Grif isn’t dead.

That’s nice.

When that sniper chose a target, he hit the Private next to Grif instead. That’s lucky. For Grif, at least. Not for the Private.

Simmons still hates himself for sighing in relief when he was told the story.

So now Grif is standing next to newly dug grave, just another spot in the too big graveyard, with a letter in his left hand and a cigarette in the other. Simmons can smell the smoke.

And normally it’s right to remind Grif that he is slowly killing himself by polluting his (Simmons’) lungs, not to mention his environments, and how bad that choice if for everyone, and how Grif should be more considerate of himself and Simmons’ lungs, and how this is just plain rude.

But they are standing in front of a tombstone – Carlos Britt – and Simmons’ mouth feels too dry to complain. He can’t recall the boy’s face, he doesn’t know Grif’s squad that well, but what he does know is that Grif cares about his team, despite his attempts to hide it.

Grif doesn’t say anything when Simmons stands next to him. Simmons doesn’t say anything when Grif continues to ignore his presence.

 But then Grif blows a cloud of smoke in Simmons’ direction, he has to break the silence – mainly because it’s impossible to avoid the coughing fit.

When he finally has air in his lungs again, Simmons wipes the tears from his eyes and tells Grif, “Smoking can kill you.”

“So can bullets.”

“True.”

They don’t say anything else until the cigarette has burned out and Grif crushes it beneath his boot. The wind is stronger out here, in the outskirts of Armonia, and the letter is almost dragged out of his hand.

“Don’t you…” Simmons swallows the spit in his mouth and turns his head to stare at a dead tree, because even with its red leaves falling slowly to the ground it’s still less depressing than the tombstone. “Don’t you have to hand over that thing? I mean, unless it’s for you. It could be for you. Is it for you?”

“Nah,” Grif says, exhaling. “He isn’t- wasn’t a brownnose like you. He got that going for him. But, like you, he peed his pants at the sight of girls.”

“I’ve never-“

“Got a girl on your team named Conway?” He waves the letter in front of his face so carelessly that Simmons fears the wind might steal it. “Probably hot as fuck?”

Simmons nods. He recalls her name, and not her face, mainly because they always wear helmets while training. He’s happy about that, of course, as it lessens the distractions, but it never stops him from imagining their cold, judging stares on the other side of the visor whenever he opens his mouth.

“The letter is for her. Guy never dared to open his mouth so now I’m being a matchmaker for a dead teenager. Call it ‘Never-ending Love’ and it’s probably the plot of one of Donut’s cringy romantic movies.” He grimaces, eyes hardening when he stares at the envelope in his hand. “Fucking stupid.”

It’s weird, seeing your eye on someone else’s face. Even now, after so many years. Especially when the look in it darkens as Grif frowns.

“Fuckers can’t just leave a voicemail if they can’t say it out loud. That’s just passing the shit on. What the hell is she supposed to do with a love confession? Oh god, what if he wrote a _poem_.”

Simmons thinks that’d be romantic but from the look of horror on Grif’s face, he doesn’t think his teammate agrees. “Maybe he just wants her to know that he loved her,” he says.

“Well, now she has a confession from a corpse. So that’s one way to get a lot of regrets and sad feelings and _urgh_. If you have shit to say, just say it. Don’t fucking leave it in a will.”

Grif looks like he might just rip the paper in pieces. It’s not often you see such resentment in Grif’s eyes (it does happen, though, in the rare cases like backtalking burritos or saying that _Star Wars_ didn’t survive the ages will make him speak up) but right now Simmons can _feel_ it radiate from him.

There’s a teenager rotting beneath their feet, and his last confession might be kept in Grif’s hand, and Simmons cannot let it be ruined by Grif’s disturbing lack of sympathy.

“I’ll deliver it,” he says, snatching it from his grip before he can protest. “She’s on my team.”

It’s always different who gets to hand over the letters. Sometimes Grey or Kimball do it, when they’ve looked up the info and the relative is nearby. Other times it’s the duty of the Captain, like in this case, when they’ve thought that Grif can keep up the tradition.

Simmons can’t blame them for their choice. He’s probably the one who knows Grif the best, the one who knows how much he resents this system. Simmons is sure the paper Kimball once gave him has been curled into a ball and thrown away.

He tries not to think too much of it.

But it’s hard when Grif almost gets shot by a sniper, when he’s standing here in front of a tombstone that has been close to get his name on it.

His imagination runs wild, and Simmons can already see the letters engraved in rocky surface: D E X T E R  G R I F

Sometimes Simmons will think of his own tombstone, and he knows Donut will be the one to arrange the flowers so at least that’s taken care of. Then then are the letters. He keeps handing in new ones to Kimball, keepings making edits and finding better words. He doesn’t know who will hand them over. Maybe Grey or Kimball or one of the Freelancers, giving his farewells to Red Team.

He isn’t sure how they will get his letter to his dad. It’s the one letter he hasn’t asked to rewrite since handing it over.

Grif doesn’t protest when Simmons takes over his task. There’s a routine to this, Simmons realizes when his orange teammate walks out of the graveyard with a surprising speed, leaving him behind.

When Grif doesn’t do his duties, Simmons steps in, not because of pity but because he cannot stand the unruly mess that Grif decides to live in. When Grif doesn’t wash the clothes, Simmons will complain and does it for him. When he doesn’t do the dishes, Simmons scolds him and does it for him.

Grif doesn’t honor the wishes of one of his soldiers, and Simmons sighs and does it for him.

He doesn’t even know what the letter says, and his guesses remain unspoken.

Conway thanks him and cries when she reads it.

Simmons stutters a condolence and walks to Kimball’s office, asking to rewrite his farewell, just in case, just one more time, yes, it’ll be the last time, he promises, please, thank you.

* * *

“But everyone else has done it.”

“Simmons, everyone else did squads this morning, but you don’t see me subjecting my body for that such of torture willingly.” Grif is in his bed again. He still doesn’t know why Grif prefers his pillow and blanket, but it has to be some weird and strange reason because that’s how Grif’s brain works. Maybe he just does it because he knows Simmons has to make the bed afterwards. “Smart people stand out, Simmons.”

This does not count as bed-sharing, no matter what Tucker might think. Simmons bites the inside of his cheek. “At least when- _if_ we die- okay, technically _when_ since we are all bound to die eventually, but-“

“We should have an alarm for when you overthink. Like a smoke detector. Just why didn’t Sarge install a microwave in you when you keep overheating your brain? I have a craving for popcorn.”

There are some things Simmons regrets Sarge didn’t install in him. Laser eyes are one of them. Right now he just has to settle with glaring at Grif with widened eyes.

“Wait,” Grif says, holding up a finger stained with cheese puff powder. “Do you think _Sarge_ has written a letter? To _you_?”

“I- I never said _that_.”

“Can you even imagine what he’d write?” Grif says with a snort, staring at Simmons with an amused grin, as if they’re discussing the Blues’ uselessness or Lopez’ stupidity or how many stars they’ve passed by this point in their lives.

“No,” Simmons says, and his cheeks might turn warm, just a little bit, but that’s just because Simmons is a horrible liar. He tries to imagine what Sarge has written, and he’s done that before, wondered when he is lying in bed, thinking about what words he might be left with if Red Team loses their leader.

He thinks that maybe-

“You know he’s not going soft because he’s dead, right?” Grif huffs, and Simmons abandons a few of his imaginations, just the ones where Sarge admits he’s always been a like son to him. “It’s probably stuff like ‘ _stay red and die_ ’, or ‘ _Simmons, remember to polish mah grave twice a day or I’ll return as a disappointed ghost and haunt ya for the rest of your days’_ , or ‘ _Grif, if ya die like the meatshield you were born to be, don’t ya dare end up in Red Valhalla, that place is reserved_ ’.”

His attempt of a Southern accent isn’t even that good, but Simmons can’t keep his lips from twitching.

“It’s gonna be the same old,” Grif says and he shrugs.

Simmons lets go of more imaginations, the ones with confessions and praise and the words _‘son’_ and _‘proud_ ’.

“They don’t change anything,” Grif continues. “So why bother?”

“Some people like to leave something behind when they die.” Simmons tries not to sound bitter but he is – he is bitter, and he just doesn’t _understand_ Grif, even when he tries, and he tries a lot.

“But _why_? They’re already dead. Nothing to worry about then.”

Sometimes Simmons feels like Grif might be trying to understand him as well.

But only sometimes.

* * *

Grif isn’t in Simmons’ bed, and Simmons can’t even bring himself to feel relieved.

This annoys him, _this_ , the fact that he checks his own room before Grif’s, and when he finally dares to enter Grif’s private territory, Grif isn’t even there. There are traces of him, though: snack wrappers, dirty clothes, empty cans and a stench of cigarettes that makes Simmons pull back his head with tears in his eyes.

He checks armory afterwards, then the spot near the graveyard where Grif likes to smoke whenever he’s been chased out of all the buildings. It’s empty, and the air surrounding the graves is quiet.

Then Simmons goes to the training area again, just in case Grif has outsmarted them all, but the others are still running around in circles, there are no traces of Grif, and Wash yells if he’s found him yet.

“I’m trying,” Simmons says and spends his afternoon running around in circles as he searches through Armonia. Grif might be quiet like a- like a cat, really. Grif is oddly cat-like. He is fat, he likes to nap, he searches for cramped and preferably warm places to hide himself, and sometimes he stares at you with big, deep eyes and you don’t know why he is doing it.

Simmons is more of a dog-person, really.

But his father is allergic, so that sweet loyalty a pet can give has always been out of his reach.

Grif might be quiet, but Simmons is smart, and therefor he will win this. It just requires some logic -and two leftover puddings from lunch.

“Tell me where he is,” Simmons says, using his Captain-voice, the one that is supposed to be stern and free from stutters.

Bitters is in the doorway, and with a slow movement he crosses his arms. “Why should I know where he is?”

His expression changes when the desserts are shoved in his face. “Because you can be bribed,” Simmons says and gets what he wants.

Simmons isn’t even sure how the storage closet can be a comfortable napping spot, but Grif has been hiding there for the last six hours. He’s still asleep when Simmons manages to pry the door open, head against a shelf filled with unopened crates.

“Wash misses you.”

“Tell Wash to go suck a dick,” Grif mutters and turns around to hide his face from the light. “Preferably Tucker’s.”

It’s cramped in the small room. Hot. When Simmons grabs the back of his neck, he feels the sweat on his skin. “He’s just gonna make you run all the laps you’ve already missed.” When Grif just closes his eyes at the threat, Simmons nudges his ankle with his foot. “You can’t miss more training sessions.”

“Why? You gonna drag me back there?” His tone is raised into a challenge, but his eyes remain closed, resting.

Simmons doesn’t understand how he can look so peaceful. “You should train,” he says briskly, and he doesn’t even say all the reasons why this is the case because it should be obvious. They’re in war. They’re out there, fighting real dangers, facing the risk of death every day.

They need to be ready.

“What if I said I was busy writing that stupid letter? That I came here for a spare pen? Would you let me nap- leave me alone then,” he says, correcting himself.

“You’re not writing a letter.”

He isn’t.

Grif doesn’t even deny the fact. He just shrugs, tilts his head to he can glare at Simmons with eyes still glazed over by exhaustion. “You know they can’t leave Chorus, right? Forget about Blood Gulch and Earth. Not happening.”

There’s a letter in Simmons’ files addressed to an office on Earth.

 _To Mr. Simmons_  
_Dad, ~~I hope~~_  
_~~I think~~_  
_I tried-_

“If we win the war, Chorus will no longer be isolated,” Simmons says, cutting off his own brain before it can recite the entire letter by memory (he spent so many nights working to get it just right and now he thinks, he believes it’s done).

“That’s a big _if_ ,” Grif says, and a second later his cheek is against the metal again.

The small room is filled with snores.

Simmons doesn’t have the strength to drag him back to Wash, Grif is too heavy.

So he leaves the crowded space, ready to fill his lungs with fresh air and hoping he’ll never have to waste his time in a storage closet again.

* * *

The thing that Simmons loves the most about the military is the system. Things are not random, they are a part of a daily routine. He knows when breakfast is served, when it’s time for dinner. He knows when to wake up, when to sleep.

He’s memorized everyone’s blood type just in case. There are numbers and letters engraved in their dog tags.

That are farewells ready to be sent and delivered in case something goes wrong.

Simmons knows when Grif’s patrol started. He also knows when it’s supposed to end.

“You’re making grooves in the floor,” Tucker warns him. He’s sitting in the chair, legs crossed, head turned towards the end of the hallway, maybe waiting as well.

The doors don’t open.

Simmons stops pacing. For a moment. Then he starts walking again, wringing his hands.

It’s not unusual for Grif to be late. Mainly because he never shows up at time. It’s a pain, really.

“Just call him,” Tucker says.

“I can’t.”

The Blue spreads out his arms. “ _Why_?”

Because what if he doesn’t reply.

If Grif doesn’t reply that means he might be dead. Dead or busy, but busy can mean fighting and fighting can lead to death. If Grif is dead then he’ll never reply to Simmons’ calls again, he won’t call him a nerd or insult his logic, he won’t talk to Simmons again, won’t look at him, won’t be there.

If Grif is gone then there’s nothing left to do, no letter to comfort himself with, because Grif has no things to say to him, no goodbyes, no revelations, no regrets or confessions, not even a final signature.

“Maybe he is busy,” Simmons answers Tucker.

He stops pacing, sits down instead. He rests his head in his hands, gets comfortable. Waits.

44 minutes and 16 seconds after he was supposed to return, Gold Team shows up in the motor pool, unharmed, pushing a Warthog with a flat tire all the way back to Armonia.

* * *

It’s strange, folding envelopes with a cyborg hand. But Simmons thinks it’s oddly calming, paper in the technological age. Of course he’ll prefer a proper keyboard every day: it saves resources, it’s easier, takes less time.

But Armonia suffers from power shortages. Simmons can feel when they happen, like a surge in the metallic part of his body. The paper, at least, is safe from that.

It has sentimental value too, he supposes. The handwriting. It becomes more personal.

And of course it makes it possible for others to judge your handwriting, but Sarge had really been thinking forward when he’d demanded calligraphy-written reports back in Blood Gulch. Simmons’ letters are _flawless_ and with curled a’s and everything.

Donut keeps adding the hearts over his I’s, but Simmons would never sink that low.

Grif’s handwriting is terrible. Scrawls and scribbles, really, barely readable. He should be ashamed.

But Simmons knows it’s not his handwriting that keeps him from writing the letter.

It took him a while but now he understands. It first clicked when Grif had brought up Blood Gulch. That it can’t be reached.

Of course it doesn’t matter that they can’t send anything to Blood Gulch. There’s no one to send it to.

There are times where Simmons wants to shake Grif’s shoulders and tell her that his sister is dead, very dead, not coming back and Grif shouldn’t mention her. Every time Grif brings her up, light-hearted and smiling as if she’s alive and well, it makes Simmons feel nauseous.

Simmons is not a good liar. If he could lie, he’d go along with Grif comforting illusions, that Kai is still back on Blood Gulch, alone, waiting, and that they’ll survive this and pick her up.

Simmons wants to say that Kai is alive.

“Kai is dead,” Simmons says and wrings his hands. He’s in the closet again, because Grif didn’t show up for training again, and now Simmons has to go get him again. “I know we don’t talk about it but-“

“Jesus fucking Christ, Simmons, I know you don’t believe in waking people up gently but at least Sarge waits two seconds before pulling his trigger.”

There is no sleep in Grif’s eyes this time. They stare at him, narrowed in the darkness.

Simmons bites his lip. He takes a moment to reconsider, to plan his words. That’s why he like the letters. He can spend forever on them, making them perfect, erase the errors before anyone can see him.

He tries to say it gently.

“I know you don’t want to write the letter, and I know this because you say it, you say that it’s useless and that’s fair, I think, but you don’t even mean it. I think. It’s just that maybe – in some cases – I just thought about it and if- when- now that Kai is dead you might- maybe- if you think she is dead you can’t write to her, and if you can’t write to her you think that maybe- I’m not sure but- if you think you’re alone, you don’t want to write any letters because you think you have no one to write to and that’s stupid. It’s not stupid, it’s sad, but also it’s a little bit stupid, and I can fix it. Write to me.” Simmons inhales for the first time in two minutes. His lungs burn but his lips are numb. He exhales. “You can write to me.”

He can hear Grif shuffle in the small room. In the darkness he can see him sit up, pushing himself upwards so he can get a better look at him.

Simmons stares back.

When he’s gained his balance, Grif crosses his arms. Blinks. Keeps staring.

Simmons’ mouth is very dry.

“What the fuck, Simmons?”

“I’m just saying,” Simmons tells him, slowly, “that I think I’ve found a solution.”

“There’s no fucking problem for you to fix.” Running his hands through his dark hair, Grif grimaces. He lets his hands fall as he says, “Go tinker with some broken computers instead.”

“I don’t want you to feel left out.”

Simmons understands that Grif won’t contact his mother. He doesn’t question that. Even Grif says he understands Simmons’ need to flip his dad off one last time (which isn’t the case, really, Simmons would just be proving his dad wrong for once).

“Just because you feel entitled to a letter doesn’t mean I’ll write you one.” Grif’s frown manages to be obvious in the dark. “I don’t believe in wasted work, Simmons. Don’t try to change that.”

“It’s not _wasted_ -“

“Well, I, for one, don’t plan on dying. I know that’s a surprising fact here on Chorus but I love being a maverick.” There’s a pause, as if they’re supposed to laugh or smile, but none of them even move. “I know hating goodbyes is a _Blue_ thing to do, but I won’t put effort into something that won’t be opened anyway. So knock it off.”

Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, the dark and annoyed and smoldering glint in them, even in Simmons’ own blue iris.

So Simmons does what he is told – because he is an obedient, loyal kissass with no spine – and leaves the storage closet once again, smacking the door behind him.

* * *

Simmons thinks about his letter to Grif. He can still see it, the outline of it, the shapes of the words etched into his brain after so many drafts.

It makes sense that he thinks about it now, coughing and bleeding, and the thought is comforting as it should be. That’s the point of the whole thing. To calm down because you know you have no unfinished business, no mess left behind.

Grif certainly isn’t the one to clean up his messes when he’s done.

Simmons has thought about that in his last will, knowing not to ask Grif for anything because it won’t be done. It’s better to task Donut and Sarge with he things that need to be done – the speech, of course, for the funeral, and the flower arrangements and the engraving, not to mention his Basebook profile and his team and his-

The burning jeep next to him cracks in the heat.

Grif will just be given stuff, and it’ll be up to him whether he wants to keep them or not. Simmons can’t care less about his choice – he’ll be dead at that point. But he thinks that Grif will appreciate the comics, maybe even the old vintage Blade t-shirt, even when it won’t fit him. He won’t accept anything related to Batman, though. Grif hates the bats so much…

Simmons can’t remember who even drove the jeep. When he first woke up and saw the driver dead next to him in the grass, he’d panicked. Grif is always the driver, that’s his job, that’s his role in Red Team.

But this isn’t Red Team.

Well, it is, technically, but it’s Simmons’ Red Team where the soldiers are teenage girls, whispering and chuckling whenever they aren’t getting shot at. They’d been on a patrol, Simmons remembers that now, and something must have gone wrong, something must have-

He wakes up in pain, smoke in his nostril, helmet beeping and chest aching. He can’t move so he stares at the motionless driver next to him, cracks in the visor, and Simmons’ breath is caught in his throat before he remembers that Grif is back in Armonia, not here in the burning grass, choking on the smoke.

That’s good.

Simmons can’t move, can’t even respond to the blinking lights in his HUD. That means he can do nothing but wait, trying to ignore the pain in his limbs, and his body grows more and more heavy, Simmons becomes sure that he is dying.

He should probably be more panicked about it. It’s a _big thing_ , to die, and he thinks that he is supposed to be crying but all his chest does is cough and ache.

Collecting his thoughts is a struggle, and all they really gather around is the letter to Grif, the one that Simmons spent so many hours on, trying to get it right, trying to write the things his mouth can’t even say, and now his tired mind can’t even remember the carefully chosen words-

_Dear Grif-_

No, he hasn’t used the word _‘dear’_. That is too formal, and they aren’t formal. They’re Grif  & Simmons, the least formal thing you can be-

There are voices in the air. Simmons can’t twitch his fingers.

_Grif-_

Even that is wrong. Simmons frowns, blinks blood away from his eyelashes and tries to get it right. The letter doesn’t use the name Grif. The first drafts did, but it’d felt wrong, not like this, not in a farewell-

The wreckage is pulled off him. Simmons tries to focus on the helmets that appear in his vison, but his thoughts keeps going to the letter.

It says

_Dexter_

* * *

Simmons wakes up in a hospital bed.

He’s fine, mostly. Grey is keeping a close eye on his lungs to take care of any damage the smoke can have caused. She steals his leg, too.

“So you can’t run,” she teases him, smiling. He would be more alarmed but he is so, so tired, and she returns two days later with a new more sophisticated cyborg leg.

Two of his squad members died when the jeep hit the mine, so Kimball visits him to give him her condolences.

Sarge asks if the new leg has a toaster. Donut and Lopez stop by as well, Donut being the only one talking, and Simmons just stares at them and feels happy that they won’t have to plan his funeral just yet.

Even the Blues shows up, Tucker making a joke about someone pulling his leg.

Simmons tries to laugh.

He is discharged five days later when another patient needs the room. He stumbles down the hallway, still trying to get used to his new limb.

He goes to his own room and finds the bed empty. He checks Grif’s own room next. Then the storage closet.

Turns out Grif isn’t even in Armonia.

He left two days after Simmons woke up, went on a mission in the Northern part of Chorus.

At the end of the week he comes home with a cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been too long since i wrote some good old Grimmons but the came the talented Foxtrot's birthday and I wanted to write something for them even though this gift is way too late, haha. I hope you enjoyed! I'll have the second part up as soon as I can!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Leaving your thoughts always warm my heart, and I hope you will enjoy the second part once I have it ready!
> 
> The chapter title is totally a reference to the "Love, Simon" movie but it hasn't even aired in my country yet, but it was too good of an opportunity to pass.


	2. Dear Dexter,

Simmons hears Grif cough and turns around to limp in the opposite direction.

He knows he’s being petty. But he also has the right to be petty. The right to be petty is earned by almost dying in a horrible Warthog crash that crushed your leg and left you stuck in the hospital for almost two weeks where your best friend doesn’t even visit you once.

And that’s why it’s alright for Simmons to be petty.

Grif, on the other hand, has no right to be petty. He has no right to be avoiding Simmons. No reasons either.

In fact, he has all the reasons to _not_ avoid Simmons. Simmons is the one who almost died, thank you very much. Grif if the lazy fatass who doesn’t bother to walk all the way to the hospital wing. Grif is too lazy to care.

Simmons has the right to be petty enough not to care either.

At least, he tries to.

* * *

“Grif isn’t in his room,” Simmons says as he sits down by the Red Team table in the middle of the cafeteria. The table had been given that name when Sarge had slammed his fist against it after drinking his coffee, claiming it as Red territory.

Now the name is less fitting. Tucker is sitting across of Donut, so it’s technically 50 % Red table.

Then Simmons joins them (66.6% Red) and they all stare up at him.

“How do you know that?” Tucker asks after swallowing a spoonful of rice. His brown eyes are narrowed in a thoughtful frown that Simmons first notices too late.

“Huh?” he says, biting the inside of his cheek and choking a yelp of pain.

“You have to check Grif’s room to know that he isn’t there.” Tucker points at him with a fork. “And why would you check Grif’s room when you told me yesterday that you two aren’t talking?”

Tucker is smirking. Simmons hates it.

He can feel the heat fill his cheeks, and Simmons hates that as well, so instead of answering he does what he came here for – he stuffs his mouth with mashed potatoes. The others continue to stare as he chews, swallows, chews again, swallows, gulps.

While he tries not to choke on his own meal, Simmons thinks bitterly about how he had to check his own room before Grif’s. That’s what he has to deal with! That there’s a bigger chance of Grif hiding in Simmons’ bed than in his own.

But of course he can’t complain about that, right now, with Tucker present.

Apparently he chews for too long because the Blue leans back in his seat, crosses his arms and says with a satisfied expression, “That’s what I thought.”

“I think Grif is just being gentle with you, Simmons,” Donut adds to the conversation. “I caught a glimpse of him yesterday and those red cheeks were not caused by naughty movies, I tell you. That is some fever. And the coughing and sneezing and just _urgh_. I’d borrow him my napkin but silk isn’t cheap, Simmons.”

Simmons doesn’t know how bad Grif looks (beside the usual, of course) because he hasn’t seen Grif because Grif is avoiding him because Grif if being petty.

Simmons sets his jaw.

Tucker notices that and says, “Seriously, if you want to track him down, just follow the sound of someone hacking their lungs out. Or find the trail of slime on the ground. I know Grif is usually a mess but this is disgusting enough for me to tell him to keep his helmet on.”

“So you’ve talked with him?” Simmons says because with all these rumors about how sick Grif is, it’s nice to know he isn’t just decomposing in a corner somewhere.

“If you count annoyed glares and shrugging – sure, we talked before he yelled at me to piss off. Wasn’t much of a yell, though. I don’t think he has any voice left.”

Donut nods, sucking the last spaghetti past his lips before he adds, “His poor throat must be sore, like after a long night of fun.”

“I don’t want to talk with him,” Simmons insists because he doesn’t want to talk to him. He wants to be petty. Because he has the right to be so. “But where do you think he is? Just so I can avoid that place and continue my not-talking-to-Grif-plan.”

“Go ask Bitters,” Tucker shrugs. “Rumors has it Grif is paying him to bring him food to his hiding spot.”

* * *

While there is no doubt that Bitters is lazy and rude and bitter, it is nice to know that he is at least consistent.

Simmons finds him in the first place he looks for him: hovering near the cafeteria, eyes scanning for any leftovers he can snatch.

His grey eyes focus on Simmons when he dangles a caramel bar in front of his face. “Whatever Grif is paying you, I’ll pay you the double.”

“I doubt that,” Bitters says but snatches the snack anyway. “‘sides, he really doesn’t really want to see you.”

Because he is petty.

Grif doesn’t want to see him because he is petty.

“That’s fine. I don’t want to see him.” When Bitters looks confused, despite Simmons being very clear about the matter, he sighs and explains further, “Grif and I are not talking to each other. Which is why I need to know where he is. So I can not-talk to him.”

Convincing Bitters to help him is easy because Grif has basically taught his team to accept whatever can bring them the biggest amount of snacks. It’s a wonder they didn’t all turn mercenaries for chips.

While Bitters goes through the stash that Simmons is offering him, he looks up from the different brands of candy bars to warn Simmons. “There are like germs everywhere.”

Simmons’ skin crawls at the thought. He needs a good supply of alcogel before moving to Grif’s hideout. Or boiling water. Something to clean his hands with. “Oh god.”

“Yeah.” Never caring about Simmons’ dislike to bacteria-infested trash, Bitters continues his descriptions mercilessly. “Snot. The green kind.”

“I don’t want to hear-“

“And used Kleenex that none of us bother to throw out.” He is smiling at this point, a small sly smile where he shows off his chocolate-stained teeth. “Looks like we had a snowball fight. With green-stained snow.”

Simmons has to hold up his hands, pressing his eyes shut as he tries to keep the images from entering his mind. “Bitters, please-“

“And he coughs on you. All the time.”

Simmons likes to believe that being stuck in a warzone has toughened him up.

But he is not ready for _this_.

“Fine,” he hisses while wringing his hands, already thinking of how to wash them, as if the conversation alone has stained them. “I’m not going anywhere near wherever the fuck he is.” There goes that plan. Simmons sighs and turns away. “Just carry him to Doctor Grey if he starts coughing up blood or something.”

“So blood is a bad sign?” Bitters asks him, frowning in an emotion that looks suspiciously like worry.

Simmons raises an eyebrow.

* * *

“I can’t believe it,” Simmons says a day later when he joins the table again for dinner. He throws his hands up in the air. He still can’t believe it. “ _I_ survived a road bomb explosion. That was how I almost died. It was dramatic and- and heroic! And dignified-”

“Did you know you were screaming like a banshee when we pulled you out?” Tucker says, sitting next to Donut and Sarge (the table is 75% Red today, which is a fair amount of Red).

When Simmons had explained to Bitters that yes, throwing up blood is indeed a bad sign, the orange Lieutenant had somehow managed to convince (or trick) his Captain to let Grey take a look at him.

Now he is in quarantine, stuck in bed with a too high fever and infected lungs.

Grey had sounded worried. Simmons has seen her cut off arms of unfortunate soldiers without sounding worried.

Simmons glares at Tucker, not happy about the comment (he does not remember screaming, but he does remember the pain. He tries to forget about it, though) and continues undisturbed, “And then Grif just gets a cold and, woops, he’s dying!”

“Serves him right.” When Sarge speaks, bits of chewed food leaves his mouth, some of it staining his grey mustache. He flails his arms around as he says, “Did you really think Grif would go out fire and blazing? Fools. This is a fitting death, exactly how he wants it: in his bed, absolutely useless.”

To his defense, Tucker’s brows furrow in what seems like a slight worry, even now when denying emotions is a very specific unspoken rules at the (mainly) Red Table. “Just what did Grey tell you?”

“That I can’t visit him.” Simmons swirls his fork around in his pasta, stares at it, before lowering his glare to look at his new leg instead. Grif hasn’t even seen his new cybernetics yet. The fork becomes stuck in the tangled starch and Simmons resists the need to scream. “The whole reason why he’s fucked up is because transplanted lungs suck ass against viruses, and since my lungs aren’t exactly original either, I can’t enter quarantine.”

“I thought you and Grif weren’t talking,” Tucker points out. Again.

“We aren’t.”

“Then why do you need to go to his room?” Tucker doesn’t even give him a chance to explain himself. Instead the Blue narrows his eyes, mouth falling open in realization as he exclaims, “Are you just gonna glare at him? Oh my god, you are.”

Donut tsks, telling him, “When you have eyelashes like Simmons’, you have to use them.”

Simmons doesn’t want to talk about his eyelashes. He doesn’t want to talk about his plan, either. Mainly because he doesn’t really have one.

So he changes the subject to something more relevant. “Does anyone know if Grif wants to be buried or cremated?” he asks, and the others just stare at him, eyes wide, obviously not knowing what to answer, which means they are literally no help. “Because _I_ don’t because _he_ doesn’t want to talk about it and _he_ doesn’t write a letter to make things clear when _he_ is fucking dead which might be any time soon because _he_ was stupid enough to go wander into a blizzard out of pure forfeit pettiness, and now his lungs have decided to take a fucking sick leave! And guess what – your lungs can’t just take a sick leave! Your body need your lungs to _breathe_! THAT’S WHY WE HAVE LUNGS IN THE FIRST PLACE!”

Simmons inhales. He can hear that, the sound of his own breathing, because everything is quiet now. Not just the Red Table, but the cafeteria. He keeps his head lowered, focusing on wriggling his new toes (an exercise Grey taught him, and now is the perfect time to do it) instead of the numerous faces turned in his direction.

Seconds afterwards the chewing begins again. It’s probably just the second meltdown of today. People scream all the time on Chorus. War does that.

But when the table begins to eat again, they start talking as well. “I’d say burial,” Sarge says with his mouth full. “Dirtbag returns to his root: the dirt. Amen.”

The others nod quietly in agreement.

“Cremation is more practical,” Simmons sighs hopelessly.

* * *

When Simons is supposed to sleep, he can’t.

Instead he stares at the ceiling and wonders what he will do when Grif dies.

He knows the word _when_ fills a lot in his thoughts but dying is a definitive fact. Even if Grif survives his illness he’s probably going to die from another pirate attack. Or lung cancer. He’ll die someday.

The way to avoid it would be Simmons dying first, but he’s just survived a near-death experience, meaning he’s probably indestructible. Or at least 60 percent metal.

So chances are he’ll have to deal with Grif’s death, and Grif, being the pain that he is, isn’t making it easy for him. Simmons doesn’t know what to do. If they stick with burial, Simmons will still have to figure out the engraving and he’ll have to see the name Dexter in the stone and-

At least Donut will take care of the flowers so he doesn’t have to arrange that but-

Should he add something for Kai? A memorial? Simmons isn’t sure-

And Kimball will be spared from the grim task of handing over a letter to Simmons because Grif doesn’t want to write a letter because Grif has absolutely nothing to say to Simmons, and that means Simmons will have no guidelines, he’ll be alone in this mess, figuring out what to do, because Grif never wants to be responsible of anything so that means Simmons will have to take care of it for him-

Oh hell no.

* * *

In hindsight, maybe Simmons’ face half covered by a surgical mask isn’t the most romantic thing to fill your entire vision the moment you open your eyes. In fact, it’s quite terrifying.

“Write the letter, Grif,” Simmons says the moment Grif’s stupidly pretty eyes are open. They are a bit glazed over but they have the same warmth as always.

Grif’s body jerks in the hospital bed. “Oh Jesus fucking-“ His hand is pressed against his chest as he tries to calm his breathing. Simmons can’t help but stare the IVs connected to him. “Fuck off, Simmons!”

Simmons shoves the pen and paper on top of the white blanket. “Write the letter.”

Grif doesn’t pick up the pen. He coughs, and it sounds horrible, and when his body stops shaking he spits into a Kleenex that he tries to throw in the bin but misses. “Just to be clear – are you a fever hallucination or did you actually go against Grey’s words and snuck inside?” he asks, adjusting his nasal cannula.

“I’m your guilty conscience,” Simmons says. “You have three days back to live. So write the fucking letter.”

Grif coughs again.

Simmons flinches back because just watching Grif struggle to breath _hurts_ , like he can feel the tremors wreck his body. He knows he’s not supposed to be here but he’s wearing the mask just in case, and yet he can’t help but keep his distance.

“See!” he says when Grif falls quiet again, tears in his eyes after the struggle for breath. “You are literally dying and you can’t even bother to write a few fucking words on a paper. So now- Now you’re gonna die and _I won’t know what to do_.”

Maybe Grif is right. Maybe he feels entitled to a letter.

But that just means that he deserves one – Grif if literally on his deathbed for fuck’s sake.

“Like a letter could change that,” Grif mutters into his sleeve, wiping away snot.

“Burial or cremation, Grif?” Simmons asks him. “You could at least make that part easy for me.”

For a moment Grif bites his lip, like he’s thinking about it, or maybe like the question upsets him. Simmons’ fingers twitch, but he knows the questions has to be asked, and that it's Grif’s own fault that he has to say it out loud.

“Mmm…No,” Grif finally says, narrowing his eyes. His black hair is wet with sweat, drops rolling down his forehead.

“You fuck.”

“I’m dying from a flu, Simmons.” He raises his hands weakly, either to shoo him away or show off the needles in them. “Gimme a break.”

“Fuck you,” Simmons says, and it feels like his vocabulary has been narrowed down to two words.

Grif closes his eyes and sinks deeper into his pillow.

Simmons considers waking him up, but then Grey appears in the room like an angry storm cloud, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him away, talking about risks of infection and contagiousness and how hard it is to make cyborg lungs during wartime.

* * *

When Simmons gets Grif’s letter, he doesn’t feel better. In fact, he feels worse. Horrible, really, like Carolina’s armored fist straight to his stomach.

Expectations only creates disappointments. His father had once said that, bitterly, when Simmons had failed to join the baseball team, like all boys in the family had done before him.

Bitters give him the letter in clenched fists and disappears before Simmons can ask him any questions. He tries to yell out for him, but his tongue feels dried out, stuck to the roof of his mouth.

His fingers shake when he opens the letter.

_Dear Simmons,_

_You suck._

_There. Happy now?_

And that’s it.

He even checks the back of the letter to be sure.

_But that’s it_.

Grif is dead. Simmons is left behind with a letter. Time to start planning the funeral.

Simmons knows this could happen. Grey hadn’t exactly been optimistic as she’d scolded him for being a threat to Grif’s and his own health. But he’d-

He’d thought she’d call him or- or just let him know if things were getting that bad.

But now it’s over and Simmons has _nothing_ but a stupid, short letter that only contains an insult and further self-doubts.

At least Simmons’ letter is filled with actual revelations. He’s prepared a heartfelt farewell to Grif, he’d finally reveal-

And now Grif will never know.

* * *

“YOU FUCK!” Simmons screams when he enters the hospital room. Last time he’d snuck inside, staying quiet to make sure Grey wouldn’t find out. Now he doesn’t give a shit. He spent all his shits earlier when he’d been ugly crying in the hallway.

Tucker had found him there, and after listening to Simmons’ sobs and stutters about how _Grif was dead_ , he’d explained how he’d just visited Grif. That he was alive. Not great, not at all, but not dead.

“You wanted a letter,” Grif croaks out. He looks worse than yesterday. “I just gave it in advance.”

Simmons is going to strangle Bitters. He is also going to strangle Grif, but Grif is doing a great job at dying all on his own. He settles down in the chair next to the bed, still fuming yet relieved.

“I want a nameless grave,” Grif tells him, the left side of his face pressed against the pillow as he looks up at him. “No fanfare. Or name. Just… Put me in the ground and get it over with. Wait. No. Make Kimball host a big buffet for all of Chorus. I want that. But I’m sticking with the nameless grave.”

“No way,” Simmons says, moving his chair closer. He can feel the heat radiating from Grif. “You are getting your own statue.”

“Don’t you dare-“

“Uhu,” Simmons cuts him off softly, reaching for a glass of water he can give to Grif. He wants to be mad but it’s _hard_ when the dumbass isn’t dead which just makes him annoyingly happy. “And Donut will make the flower arrangement-“

Grif’s hands are shaking too much, so Simmons helps him press the glass against the lips. “No-“ the patient says when his voice is back.

“And Matthews will make a speech,” Simmons adds with a soft smile. He can almost imagine the scene (hell, an hour ago he’d been forced to plan it) and it makes the smile more sad than anything. “And Donut will cry and hand out napkins.”

“Why?” Grif asks him. “Will you cry?”

Simmons wonders if his right eye is still bloodshed from earlier. “Sarge didn’t install tear canals in the cyborg eye,” he says, shrugging. “He might shed a tear. Who will he use for target practice now?”

Grif doesn’t reply to that. Instead he coughs again, and the noise makes Simmons curl his toes, and he wonders if the scenario he had to live through earlier might come true.

Simmons bites his lip and frowns.

When Grif has air in his lungs again, he looks up at Simmons with glassy eyes. “If we’ve settled on burial, can you leave me alone now? I think I have a lung or two to throw up.”

“But… I’m not done.”

“ _How_?” Grif says. “We’ve talked through your stupid checklist. You know what to do.”

“But I don’t! I don’t know what to do! You might die, Grif, and _I don’t know what to do_!”

Grif’s troubled breathing is very loud in the silence. Simmons can hear every hiss and gasps in the inhales, especially when he lowers his head to glare at his lap instead.

 “I take it the letter didn’t help,” Grif finally said, voice oddly soft.

“Fuck you.”

 “This is just payback from when you decided to explode with your Warthog,” Grif mutters quietly.

Simmons wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and sniffs loudly. “Did it feel this bad?” he asks and looks around for any Kleenex that Grif hasn’t used yet.

He doesn’t remember much of his time in his hospital. He remembers Grif not being there.

Looking at Grif in his hospital bed, Simmons is beginning to understand why Grif pushed himself away. He doesn’t agree, but he slowly understands.

Grif turns his head away from him, focusing on the wall instead. He avoids answering the question and instead he shrugs. “Too bad a letter didn’t make you feel better, huh.”

“Grif, did you- did you read my letter to you?”

“ _No_ ,” Grif snorts and then he needs a moment to catch his breath before he continues, “Why should I? You didn’t die so they didn’t give it to me. ‘sides, I wouldn’t have opened it anyway.”

Simmons spent hours on his letter. He remembers having the choose each word, making sure the handwriting was perfect.

_Dexter, I am sorry that I will first tell you this now but-_

“Why-“ he asks him. Grif’s eyes are still closed.

“If you want to say something Simmons, say it to my face,” he mutters. A drop of sweat rolls down his nose. Simmons resists the urge to wipe it away.

Apparently Simmons stays quiet for too long because Grif, of all people, gets inpatient. His eyes flies open, and he grunts as he turns over to lie on his side. “C’mon. Go through your fucking letter now. Cremation, right? Maroon flowers, big speech, the whole shebang-“

“I think I like you,” Simmons tells him.

He then bites his lip, waiting for Grif’s response.

Grif’s mouth falls open.

And then he coughs till the point where they are both crying.

“Please don’t die,” Simmons whines, reaching out to pat Grif’s back and flinching when he feels the warmth of the skin through the sweat-soaked shirt.

Grif looks up at him, still struggling to breathe but able to say, “Goddamnit, Simmons-“

There is a moment where a part of Simmons’ brain screams to lean forward and kiss him, but then he remembers that he is wearing a surgical mask, and it’d be very impractical, really, not to mention rather cringe-worthy and emotional-

“Out!” Grey screams, causing them both to jump in surprise.

Simmons looks back at Grif. “But-“

“ _Out_!” she says and yanks him out of the chair with enough force to make his metallic arm ache.

* * *

Simmons spends the rest of his week with his face pressed against the glass of the quarantine room, waiting to see Grif grow worse every day until he actually dies this time.

But he doesn’t.

Instead the fever breaks.

(Simmons cries anyway, but this time the tears are happy, and no one buys his excuse about allergies.)

* * *

“And when you fled she insisted my fever had worsened ‘cause my skin was flushed-“

Simmons leans back in the chair, smiling. “Wait, are you saying you were blushing?” he asks, trying not to sound smug but it’s a hard battle.

And he loses it.

Grif glares at him, ignoring his comment. “-and she kept choking me with that thermometer.”

“At least you’re feeling better,” Simmons says, taking in a deep breath now when breathe properly since Grif is now capable of doing so. He only coughs a few times a day now, and while he still has to stay in the hospital wing for Grey to keep an eye on him, the doctor actually found him well enough to let Simmons visit with her permission.

That has given them the opportunity to talk about things. Things they should probably have talked about earlier.

“Don’t say that too loud,” Grif mutters bitterly, pulling at the needle in his hand despite both Grey and Simmons telling him not to do so. “I’m still counting on skipping training the next month.”

“I’d say a week before Carolina realizes you aren’t on your deathbed.”

Grif looks up at him, eyes bright but not in a feverish way. “How long do you have to keep on that stupid mask?” he asks, trying to look annoyed but the smile cracks through his expression.

Simmons gets it.

He reaches out to touch Grif’s hand, happy to find it cooler than the last time he touched it.

Simmons hates wasted work, but the letter he once wrote is torn to pieces and lies on the bottom of the bin. It’s not completely wasted, he supposes, since they went through its content first. They skipped past the details about Simmons' funeral because, really, who wants to think about death all the time?

It might be tradition on Chorus but Kimball also says times are changing.

So they have focused on the other stuff instead, the mushy stuff, where they have to talk about feelings. It’s a brief talk, mostly, because Simmons has already admitted he liked him, and then Grif just agreed, and the emotions are mutual, and it’s all oddly simple.

Simmons isn’t quite sure what it means for the future, but he knows it means he can hold Grif’s hand now while he gets better.

“I say we should avoid tainting my body with your germs for now,” Simmons has to insists because he’s seen how bad Grif felt when the illness wrecked him – he is not interested in going through the same ordeal. “I just had a near-death experience, thank you very much.”

Grif huffs and moves around to get comfortable beneath the blanket. For someone who loves to stay in bed, Simmons can sense he is slowly getting eager to leave Grey’s clutches. “I’m just saying that if you claim to sign your letter with x’s and o’s, you have to prove it,” Grif says, tilting his head.

Simmons smiles behind the surgical mask. He decides to keep it on but agrees on a compromise by crawling into the hospital bed, shoving Grif until they both fit. His skin is warm against Simmons as he rests his head on his shoulder, but the warmth is pleasant.

“We’ll get to that,” Simmons promises him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Some happy ending grimmons stuff! I hope you liked it, Foxtrot! Thanks for being an awesome friend!

**Author's Note:**

> You know the drill: English is not my first language so I'm sorry for any mistakes and you can find me as riathedreamer on tumblr.


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